What to Make of Me
by Coldpaws
Summary: RotF AU: The Matrix brings Optimus back to life - as a femme. Now in a femme frame, Prime struggles with the emotional and practical challenges that result, and the weight of his responsibilities to his people. Optimus, Ironhide, and Ratchet focused.
1. Prologue

Title: What to Make of Me

Revenge of the Fallen AU

Summary: The Matrix brings Optimus Prime back to life - as a femme. Now in a femme frame, Prime struggles with the emotional and practical challenges that result, and the weight of his responsibilities to his people.

Characters: Optimus, Ironhide, Ratchet

**Prologue**

"Tell me the prognosis, Ratchet." Ratchet shifted uncomfortably, then sunk slightly into the sand from the weight redistribution. They'd set up a temporary headquarters at the base of the destroyed pyramid, and humans, both local and from NEST, scurried around with the bodies of the dead and injured.

"I don't think removal would solve the problem, Prime. The reconfiguration has already occurred – removing the Matrix might change some of these energy readings, but would not, I doubt, return you to your…previous form."

"I see." Optimus said gravely.

"When we return to Diego Garcia, I might be able to do some refitting to your, ah, altered interfacing equipment, but, I don't think anywhere on the planet would have the scale of metalworking facilities necessary to completely replace your limbs or chassis."

Optimus nodded, but said nothing. He turned and looked out over the battlefield of the previous morning. A desert sandstorm had begun already to erase the traces of the battle, Cybertronian footsteps filled in and spilled blood and energon absorbed. The ruins of the once great solar harvester and pyramid, great tumbled blocks of sandstone, had sand creeping over them. In another generation of his people, they would probably be completely buried and forgotten by the humans. If there was another generation of his people.

"No, Ratchet, I think that will be unnecessary. The Matrix, much like the Allspark cube, works in ways beyond our understanding – but I do not believe in coincidences, and clearly this transformation is to serve a greater purpose." Ratchet nodded brusquely

"Now tell me, when will the Autobots be ready for sea transport back to NEST headquarters?"


	2. A Wife and Two Brothers

A/N:This is pretty short, but the following chapters are a little more lengthy. I just wanted to put a warning that this chapter contains some descriptions of Cybertronian gore (and lots of angst).

**A Wife and Two Brothers**

**Or Three Femmes, Four Corpses**

Less than 72 hours later, NEST had packed up camp onto the carriers and was swiftly returning 'home'.

The days on the aircraft carrier were filled with one teleconference after another – the world was in an uproar over the revelations about extraterrestrial life, not to mention the terror attacks out of the sky engendered, and Optimus was needed not only to reassure those world leaders who had not previously known of their existence of their status as a faction friendly to the people of Earth, but also to consult with those that operated NEST about the future of the program and the presence of Cybertronians on Earth.

Optimus caught recharge naps on the flight deck when he could, and checked with Ratchet on the status of the injured regularly. Ironhide's left arm would need replacement, fraggit, how the hell was he supposed to scrap that together; Jolt needed time to recover energy reserves. Three nights out from Egypt, Arcee's final body ceased to function.

Optimus announced the news to the rest of the Autobots and select NEST members that noon. Ratchet had to the best of his abilities cleaned up the bodies, though Optimus had ordered him not to waste precious Cybertronian metals on their repair. The tarp that the remains rested on uncovered became an impromptu grieving shrine – Bumblebee was, unsurprisingly, devastated, and could not be torn away, kneeling and keening and spitting static, from his ex-teammate. The others grieved in their own way – the twins avoided the bodies as all cost, stubbornly keeping themselves to the far end of the flight deck and their gazes to the sea. Ironhide, doped on pain-killing programs, could do little more than shake his head – Ratchet, still slaving on the repairs of almost everyone else, was as usual besieged by the guilt and weariness of a healer who has seen too much death but has no time for rest or grief.

The night before they were to arrive in Diego Garcia, Optimus woke from a brief recharge to a quiet deck and a dark sky. He toured the flight deck, pacing it's length, another activity common to the last few days, and after a few rounds found himself faced with the corpses of the only femme to have previously touched Earth.

Arcee's blue extension had been nearly obliterated in an explosion or concussive cannon blast, the remains arranged much like a human's archaeological find – gaps between ravaged armor pieces, the abdomen almost entirely missing. The other red extension had, despite Ratchet's hammering, clearly been crushed, and a glaze of glass had formed from the heat and pressure. Her pink center was in the best shape, but tragically, and much like Jazz, had been sliced nearly in half – a great gouge ran from the shoulder near to the pelvic unit, unnaturally and grotesquely cleaving through armor and protoform with a blade perhaps larger than she was. Besides that wound, the body looked well, newly washed of sand.

Optimus suddenly realized he had never spoken to Arcee about her life before the war. In fact, he realized, he had never spoken to any femme besides Elita-1 before the war – no, he did have the fuzzy memory of meeting a Chromia a handful of times, though the content of their conversations remained irretrievable, probably deleted forever. Though would such second-hand, filtered information on other femme's lives prove any use, in the tattered remains of their society?

He turned away from the bodies to gaze out over the ocean. The sloshing water and drone of the engines were inescapable, but otherwise the night was quiet. The sea was dark, and bled almost inseparably into the moonless sky.

He had thought often of Elita in the early years of war, wondering what she would have thought of he and his only brother torn from one another. He knew she had never warmed to Megatron like she had to him and Ultra Magnus – but of course, in those early vorns he had not been able to understand that sometimes a thing like madness did not need reason.

Would he warm to a single mech, and tolerate his brothers and cousins? Was there any mech, besides the twins and perhaps Sideswipe, that had a living brother or cousin? Truly the remaining were desolate.


	3. Two Comrades and an Argument

A/N: Thanks to everybody who reviewed the first couple chapters! Hey, OP, glad you found it here on FFnet.

Optimus'girl: I'm not sure where you got the idea that Optimus is not aware that he is a femme now, but there's not any confusion. The prologue is him and Ratchet discussing the fact, and most of last chapter was intended to show his first thoughts on the deeper implications. Also, I want to warn you, there's not going to be a lot of humor in this story. Yes, it _would_ be funny if Ratchet and Ironhide duked it out for his affections - but this isn't a romantic comedy. Hence the Drama/Angst genre tags.

**Two Comrades and an Argument**

The carrier arrived at NEST headquarters the next evening, with helicopters ferrying mechs and cargo back to land. Optimus took it upon himself to personally welcome the three newly arrived Autobots, Trailbreaker, Beachcomber, and Smokescreen, to their base of operations on Earth, such as it was.

No, there were no personal quarters yet. No, they didn't have enough energon to regularly refuel with it – it's reserved for emergency medical use.

Yes, the human soldiers made good comrades outside of battle as well as on the front lines. Yes, Beachcomber, you may collect some plant and animal samples – but ask the human authorities first.

It was good to see some familiar faces again.

The Autobot's case as refugees made to the UN via satellite several days prior allowed the NEST base to exist in a state of limbo – the nations previously aware of its existence didn't cut the flow of funding, though officially the world could decide to deport them and they, per Optimus' agreement, would leave without resistance. Although the battle wounds were just beginning to knit together, Optimus found himself suffering a new paranoia and restlessness, and ordered regular training with the NEST strike teams to continue, as well as the appropriate integration of the new arrivals into their battle strategies. And the unfortunate adjustments around the loss of Arcee.

A week after their return to Diego Garcia, Optimus was returning to the hanger that served as the designated Autobot recharge area – it boasted minimal noise disturbances, and the foam padding that served as berths for those that could not assume their alt foams, or simply found themselves warming to the new human inspired and provided luxury. As he strolled around the human mess building, he saw Ironhide standing resolutely in front of the hangar door, still as a rock. A clamp held his injured arm to his abdomen to reduce the weight to his still healing shoulder. Ironhide stared to the side where Jolt maintained his 'garden', though clearly his processor was on other matters.

"Ironhide, my friend," Optimus said as he approached, coming to stand next to the black statue, "if I may ask, what is on your processor?" Ironhide didn't jump, but a twitch of the faceplates showed his surprise, and something else Optimus didn't know what to make of. For a moment they regarded one another, as Ironhide displayed no other reaction to his presence or question than to critically run his good optic over Optimus' body and expression. Then he huffed a sigh and turned his optics away, shaking his head.

"Optimus, what have you gotten yourself into this time." The edge of Ironhide's usually reserved EM field was buzzing against his sensors, turbulent with frustration and something else. But he was exhausted after days – no, weeks – of never-ending responsibilities, and Optimus the diplomat didn't have the energy left to carefully unfold the meanings of the words and tease apart the emotions behind the body language.

"Ironhide, I find it difficult to say this, but you'll have to be more direct." Optimus placed his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, expectant. He quickly moved them away though, thought about crossing them, instead settling for awkwardly holding them rigid at his sides. Ironhide watched his display without comment.

"Come on," the mech grunted, and trod off towards the perimeter of the base – and away from prying subordinates. Optimus followed, and soon they had walked outside the security perimeter and all the way to the edge of the island, where Ironhide proceeded to lopsidedly pace in the sand. Optimus thought about sitting, but decided against it when he realized the landscape was featureless of anything besides sand and scrub dirt.

"Well?" Optimus queried after such time he thought Ironhide might have burned up some energy.

"_Well_, he asks. Or should that be _she_?" Ironhide growled back at him. Optimus felt the words like a slap in the face.

"Is that what this is about?" He said coldly. Ironhide stopped pacing to look up at him, and Optimus was bitterly glad of the fact that he had not lost any height if nothing else. "Do you have a problem following the orders of a femme, soldier? I would hope the war supersedes petty discomforts."

"How can you - you don't - !" Ironhide fumed at him, shaking his good fist. "This has nothing to do with that! You think I would have trained up Arcee like I did if I cared about that scrap?" Ironhide's field stormed against his own as the weapons specialist moved closer. Optimus fought the desire to take a step back. "What I want to know is why Ratchet's telling me you're not doing anything about it!"

Optimus measured his words carefully. "What do you mean, 'not doing anything about it'? What is the problem? What would you have me do?"

"Well I dunno, maybe losing a few tons of mass isn't so big a problem for battling mechs like Megatron and Starscream. And the whole flinching away from your own chassis, yeah, that's gonna inspire respect and fear on the battlefield," Ironhide spat, stepping back to gesture vulgarly towards Optimus' chest.

"And I ask again, what would you have me do?"

"Get Ratchet to fix it! I dunno what the heck is going on with," this time Ironhide waved his hand around his own sparkseam, "but get the doc to put some pounds back on you! And I can't imagine you're happy losing the family power tool."

"He _can't_, 'Hide." Optimus turned to face the ocean, pinching his nasal ridge. "You realize that new arm of yours cost us all of one of Arcee's extensions, and much of another? And required the cooperation of the most technologically advanced robotics facility in the United States, which only agreed to the project in exchange for aid in miniaturizing the blueprints? Which is why that new arm had to come without inbuilt weaponry. It would be a gross misdirection of limited resources and goodwill to replace my perfectly functional body." Ironhide stepped out of Optimus' personal field, chagrined. Optimus watched askance as all the ire of before drained out from him, replaced by the same fatigue Optimus himself felt.

"As for my 'power tool'…" Optimus gave Ironhide a rueful look. "It's not like it's been put to much use the last few millennia." Ironhide snorted, but his lips twitched. "And at least…" Optimus trailed off.

"What?"

"Much like the Allspark, the Matrix of Leadership remains something of a mystery. Clearly it can also grant life, as it did to me…I do not profess to know the full power of the Matrix, but I think it would be very foolish indeed to resist its will in returning me to life in this way. And at least...I told Sam to destroy the Allspark, eliminating our easiest method of creating new generations. It comforts me to think that perhaps I did not order the genocide of our species with those words."

"What, you think you're going to crank out sparklings like a manu plant? With who?" Dropping the subject usually meant Ironhide conceded the point, which Optimus took for a victory. Though now, in his usual manner as Optimus' oldest sounding board, he had managed to bring up yet more uncomfortable thoughts.

Optimus just shrugged, and, this time without hesitation, crossed his arms under his chassis.

"Arcee was always sizing up mechs for husbands, she told me when I was trainin' her. She'd been the age for it right before the war got started. You don't know, but I asked her about it when she landed here. She told me she'd given up. Potential husband materials kept dying. She figured, ha! She figured if she survived to the end she'd end up with highest ranked officer. Or officers." At Optimus' grimace, Ironhide clarified. "Probly you, you dumb-aft," Hide chuckled darkly, then dropped all pretense of humor. "Hmm...Somethin' to think about."

"Indeed." That was all Optimus could really say to that unpleasant truth, that he'd been putting from his mind since the night on the aircraft carrier – despite his earlier joke to Ironhide, he'd avoided his interface array with the determined excuses of a very busy leader, and that representing a physical task he had no doubt could be overcome like the unpleasantness of sand in the joints. But to produce a sparkling required also the intimate joining of two sparks, such as he had not done since Elita's death, and then only with her. Who among his troops, his subordinates all of them, could he bare his soul to? His sparked recoiled from the question.

"Optimus…" Ironhide interrupted his thoughts. "You look like slag. Let's go recharge."


	4. Two Mechs, One Femme, and a Discussion

A/N: Thank you again for those who reviewed the last chapter.

Optimus'girl: Fortunately for Ironhide, Optimus really doesn't know the meaning of the word grudge. As for your question, a little of his appearance has been described already. I know both the prologue and last chapter reveal various things, such as the fact he's got less mass but is the same height; his abdomen/chassis aren't quite the same shape; neither are his limbs. Read carefully and these little things might come out, as sometimes they aren't said directly. And funny you should mention Epps...

Peya_Luna: You know, originally the plotline was somewhat close to 'last femme interfaces with everyone for babies', but somewhere along the way it changed (probably fortunately). As for the emotional denseness, I don't think it has to do with being a mech at all - I just think that's Optimus. Optimus is an Olympic athlete in the sport of denial. Good for being a leader - not so good for one's own emotional health.

Borath: Haha, not that I don't appreciate the lols sometimes, but the urge bit for a more serious fic. Plus, I don't know if you saw it, but almost concurrently someone else over on LJ is writing the cracky version, so we sort of have been balancing each other out.

**Two Mechs, One Femme, and a Discussion**

"Whoa, Optimus, you go on weight watchers or something?" Optimus turned towards the lift at the edge of the platform, where a crutched Robert Epps was limping his way toward the conference table. The Chief Master Sergeant had taken shrapnel to the leg during the battle in Egypt, and had been out of commission since. Clearly, though, he had now taken it upon himself to return to duty in any capacity possible. Hence, his appearance as this meeting to discuss long term tactical goals against the Decepticons – and his alarmed exclamation at the change in Optimus' appearance.

"You look like Ratchet decided to use you for spare parts. What happened?" Optimus had noticed some confused expressions gracing the faces of familiar humans around Diego Garcia, but had not yet been confronted directly about it. On the one hand, it did not surprise him that Epps was the one to bring it up – it would have surely been him or Lennox. On the other hand, he'd dreaded revealing the exact nature of his revival to his own troops, let alone their human allies. Now confronted, he could only stand in stiff terror, his usual honesty warring with his desire for privacy.

Fortunately, Ironhide, who stood on the other side of the scaffold, came to his rescue. "What happened to your leg, ya little junkheap?"

"My leg? My _leg_? I think you might know somethin' about what happened to my leg, ya overgrown tractor. If I remember right, you was the one who shot the Decepticreep whose bits ended up in my leg." Epps finished his trek to the conference table and fairly well collapsed into one of the rolly office chairs that had been brought up for the meeting. He took the opportunity to shake a crutch in Ironhide's direction.

"If _I_ remember right, you were the one who was bleeding all over my seats all the way back to the medical tents," Ironhide grumbled, smirking. Epps rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back up to Optimus.

"Really, Prime, you alright? I just want to make sure you okay, after," Epps shrugged, but didn't flinch away from the reference, "the way things went in Pennsylvania. Ratchet patch you up good?" The man's honesty and sincerity gave Optimus a renewed calm, and the momentary distraction by Ironhide had allowed him to formulate a suitable response to inquiries.

"I am fully repaired and in top condition, Epps, thanks to the expertise of our CMO. The loss of mass has been a side effect of my death," Epps and Ironhide both kept their composure, but even from across the gantry Optimus felt a waver in Ironhide's EM field, "and consequent resurrection. I'm sure that others may have also noticed the change in my appearance, and I would appreciate if you would alleviate their concerns."

Epps studied him for a moment, eyes flicking over to the stairs as other NEST and international officials made their way up. "It ain't as obvious to folks who haven't been around you as much, and being up here also gives a better view…If anyone asks, I'll let the official word be that there's nothing to worry about. Take care of yourself, hear? And not in just the tune-up way."

#########################

Epps might have been the first to say something (excluding Ironhide), but over the past few weeks, as mechs had settled into island routine again and the aftershocks of Egypt had quieted, Optimus felt the optics on him. To be honest, he simply didn't have a definable emotional reaction. A part of his mind, the logical, sensible part, said it should be perfectly expected that his soldiers would send him curious looks regarding his change in appearance, especially regarding recent events. Another part of his mind, the indistinct, sparkdeep intuition he'd always possessed, told him that these looks were not merely from confusion and concern.

The first time he'd noticed, he'd been embroiled in a training exercise with Sideswipe and Jolt, working their way through a 'city' and trying to route Smokescreen the Decepticon towards an ambush of NEST heavy guns. Smokescreen instead ambushed Jolt, breaking out of a shack, plowing the slightly smaller bot over and, at exactly the moment of collision, released a cloud of smoke to obscure the area. Optimus being closer, he'd immediately stepped to the end of the lane the pair wrestled in, a crackle of lightning lighting up the dark cloud like a thunderstorm. Optimus had guessed correctly, though, about Smokescreen's escape path, and not a moment later the diversionist escaped the fight and ran head on into Optimus' chest.

Optimus dropped his weight, clinging to the smaller mech and pulling him to the ground, twisting with the movement to bring Smokescreen below him. Smokescreen tried to throw Optimus' grip with a combined door-wing/arm flick and twist, but Smokescreen had been lost in space, off the battlefield, for several centuries, while Optimus had spent the past several years continually training and battling against Decepticon agents. Expertly, Optimus countered, and in the end the tactician found himself face down in the dirt, door-wings and one arm pinned to one side with an elbow, legs trapped by larger knees, and the remaining arm twisted up, gun pointed into his own back by Optimus' firm grip.

"Ok, Prime, you got me," Smokescreen surrendered. Optimus released his arms and wings, leaning back on his haunches to bring his weight off the smaller mechs knees. No need to possibly crush a joint mechanism. Hearing footsteps at their backs, Optimus glanced back over his shoulder to see Jolt standing in the dissipating cloud of smoke.

Optimus felt his gaze like a magnet, locking their optics together for a moment, Jolt's expression confused and enraptured at once. Then the young mech flicked his focus away, and the moment passed. Optimus realized Smokescreen had risen to his feet in the meantime, and stood up himself.

"Jolt, Smokescreen, I will comm. Sideswipe and the humans and let them know we will repeat the exercise, this time with him acting as the rogue and Smokescreen on our team." Jolt nodded curtly, but did not respond verbally or turn to face him. But during the following moments of conferring and discussion with the humans over the specifics of the new mission, Optimus couldn't ignore, from the corner of his vision, Jolt's repeated illicit glances in his direction.

#########################

The afternoon of the conversation with Epps, the Autobot command staff also gathered for a meeting to discuss the future of the war effort – though this time without human participation. The medbay's ability to be sealed from interruption, and its thicker insulation from temperature extremes (and prying audios), had designated it the usual conference room should Optimus need to talk to his command team without interference. Ratchet was puttering around waiting for them when he arrived, and when Ironhide walked through the doors a few minutes later, he sent the command for them to roll shut, locking with a discernable click.

"Well, pick your seats, gentlemechs," Ratchet gestured, himself perching on a homemade stool next to a homemade, Cybertronian size work table. Ironhide opted to lean back against the cement raiser that served as a general purpose berth, and Optimus, considering the one other, older and less stable stool, merely tucked his hands behind his back.

"So how did the morning one go?" Ratchet asked as they settled. Ironhide gave his usual, very simplified overview, and Ratchet interrupted his usual grumblings over the humans' inability to plan long term. Optimus held back a smile at their bickering.

"And, of course, now the humans are noticing Prime's had a bit of a refit as well." Ironhide finished. Ratchet's expression was neutral as he leaned back on the stool, resting his hands on his knees.

"Oh?"

"Chief Master Sergeant Epps has returned to limited duty, and expressed concern for my health upon seeing me." Ratchet snorted.

"Back on duty already, after a wound like that? I wouldn't let him out of _bed_ yet, and he's asking about you taking care of yourself," Ratchet rolled his optics, an economical human habit of expressing emotions Optimus suspected the mech of frequently harboring. Ratchet continued, "but it can hardly be a surprise, either. I've had Beachcomber and of all mechs _Sideswipe_ in here asking, with various levels of subtlety, about you." He didn't continue, but the glare shot down his nasal ridge clearly expressed his opinion on the matter. As soon as Optimus had concluded that he would undergo no alteration to assume a form closer to his previous sex, Ratchet had advised devising a cover story to tell the troops and humans that would explain the change in form but evade the exact nature of the transformation.

Optimus had, of course, refused. If he was going to tell his troops anything, it was the truth: the Matrix, upon reviving him, had decided his second chance at life was to be as a female. In plain language Ratchet had told him this plan was garbage, and he might as well strip off his armor for Megatron and get it over with. Following the ensuing battle of wills Optimus had avoided Ratchet for several days, neither conceding the point. On the other hand, neither had Optimus made any move himself to announce to the Autobots an official statement of an honest nature, and he could tell as the weeks passed that Ratchet's patience grew thinner and his worry greater. Ironhide was silent on the matter, and as Optimus felt a fresh storm brewing between them, he came to a decision.

"I will do as I have always said I would do. I believe that now that people's concerns are reaching such a level and we have all sufficiently recovered from Egypt, it is the time to reveal to the Autobots why I appear…refit." Ratchet stared at him with dead seriousness, slowly raising a single optic ridge. Ironhide shifted, scraping against the cement. "But I also concede there is some wisdom to keeping the number of people aware of this information select. There are only twelve of us, including myself. I think, given orders for discretion, a security breech is hardly something to be overly concerned about."

"And the humans? I _know_ Epps isn't the only one to have noticed. John Keller personally called to ask after our supplies and your state of repair not 10 days ago after your teleconference. And he could barely see your shoulders, chest, and arms. They've got eyes."

"A couple of them, maybe," Ironhide interjected. "To tell the truth to, I mean," he continued, when they gave him curious looks. "Lennox, Epps, Keller – they can handle it. Keep the kids out of it if we can, but they don't have leaky comms if they do find out, if you know what I mean." They could keep secrets, was what he meant.

Ratchet frowned even more severely, but couldn't argue the truth of it, especially since most of the named humans spent almost all their time on Diego Garcia anyways, the most informationally secure location on the planet. Of them, only Keller regularly returned to the United States now – the children had been banned from entering most countries' borders, and like the Autobots, had essentially taken up residence as refugees.

"Acceptable. But not Wheelie – I still don't trust the rustbucket as far as I can spit, and I can't spit at all."

"Seconded," from Ironhide. Optimus nodded, confirming the decision.

"I will prepare a statement for the Autobots and appropriate humans, and a written one for Secretary Keller. This brings me to the second reason for this conference." Here Optimus paused. He brought his hands from behind his back, took half a stride in one direction, stopped, turned, paced a couple in the other direction, stopped again. He rested his hands on his hips, facing a wall of supply cabinets, neatly labeled in Cybertronian with their contents. Pistons, gears, coolant, wires, soldering irons, welding torches…

"I think I should have a sparkling," Optimus said, "I think I should have one, the sooner the better."

Optimus continued to examine the medical supply shelves during the silence that followed. He eyes found the large, locked cabinet labeled 'reclamation', and he couldn't bear it any longer. He turned around away.

Ratchet sat gaping with open shock. Optimus could not recall a time he'd ever seen the mech so thrown. Ironhide, on the other hand, pushed away from the berth angrily, stomping over to stand in front of Optimus rigidly. Optimus looked down with him and they locked gazes. Ironhide reached out to grab Optimus' chest on both sides, and promptly shook him like a wet sheet of aluminum.

"Have you gone _insane_? You want to carry -" Ironhide started to shout, but before he could finish, Ratchet had stalked over with speed and grace usually reserved for the battlefield and punched his cheek so hard his vocalizer shorted. Ironhide let go of Optimus' chest and stumbled to the side, but regained his footing before he hit the ground.

"Keep. Quiet." Ratchet hissed. Even the insulation of this building had its limits – and its one poor point for privacy was its central location in the base.

"Thank you, Ratchet," Optimus said diplomatically, but knew he'd failed to hide all his reactions from his voice at the expression the medic gave him.

"Optimus," Ratchet began, "Go sit on the berth," he jerked his head. Optimus complied, and Ratchet followed to stand by the bedside. "Sir, have you gone insane?" Ratchet echoed Ironhide.

"No. I think this is what I'm meant to do."

"Prime," Ratchet pressed a digit to his chest, dangerously close to his spark, and, of course, the Matrix. "Don't give me that mystical slag. We're in a slagged war – slagged to the Pit war. I'll tell you the same thing I've told any femme I've ever encountered during my tenure as an Autobot medic: Over my corpse will you do this."

"I am doing this over _Arcee's_ corpse." It was a low blow, and Optimus regretted the strong words the moment he felt the pain in Ratchet's EMF. Not only that, but the CMO made no attempt to hide it, either, flinching away as if hit by a blaster. Optimus reached out for his shoulder, but Ratchet jerked away.

"Ratchet, my friend, I'm sorry. I should not have said that. But you two must acknowledge the fact that I may be the _only femme alive_." The three contemplated this in silence for a moment, then Ratchet jumped up to sit beside Optimus on the berth. He leaned to let his arms rest on his legs and his face rest in his hands. Finally, after another moment of silence, he gave a great shuddering sigh. Optimus, slowly, reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Arcee, the only femme we have heard news of, is dead. _I_ have already died once – clearly, there can be no surety any of us will survive to see the end of this wretched war. But I would like there to be _some_ Cybertronians left to see the end of it. I will not tell you my feelings about the Matrix, as you don't want to hear it, but you both already know my reasoning on that matter," Optimus fiercely gripped Ratchet's shoulder now, clutching it as a lifeline as he spilled thought that had been plagueing him for weeks.

"If I don't do this – If I continue as if this opportunity had not presented itself, and then I passed on to the Well, I would not be able to let go. I think I would haunt this poor organic world with my regrets. Ironhide, when was the last time you saw a young mech first join his guild, to start to learn their trade?" Ironhide just shook his head.

"Or the last time a family courted a wife. Or you, Ratchet, when was the last time you had the joy of bringing a new life into this world? Too long to remember. Too long for us old, rusty, creaky mechs to remember. I don't think half the mechs on this planet _could_ remember – for them, there is only the War." They sat in silence another few moments, Ironhide stalking the room, sending worried frowns as well as burning glares in his direction.

"Well," Ratchet said, defeated. "Well. Okay, big mech. You're gonna have a sparkling. Who's the father?"


	5. Two Friends, a Leap of Faith, a Stumble

A/N: First, warning: This chapter contains explicit Cybertronian "sticky" sex, with analogue penis and vagina. If that is not your cup of tea, you may skip to the next dividing ## symbols, and you shouldn't miss too much plot.

Borath: Unfortunately, both aspects you mentioned really enjoying (internal politics/Megatron's every looming presence) fade out a bit as the story progresses - they're there, but the way it developed is more focused on Optimus and folks dealing with things from here on out. But I am trying to give hints of the 'outside world' or 'background world', and I'm glad you're picking up on them!

RAVen05: Wow, re-reading! What a compliment! I am, for the most part, leaving chapters be. I re-read them, and _occasionally_ make language edits, but I haven't had the heart to make significant changes to scenes or plot development.

Optimus'girl: Optimus isn't pregnant yet. Ratchet's question intended meaning was "Who will you choose to be the father?" My apologies for the confusion.

gillian of arenal: It's funny, because when I first picked up this prompt, I spent a lot of time debating how I might go about choosing the partner. One option was basically a rotating dating schedule - of course, that did not end up happening.

Peya Luna: Optimus is indeed smokin' hot. It's more a problem of, y'know, status/position as supreme leader, and all the baggage that entails.

confuzzled-neko: Cons? Uuuhhh...Sorry, there's been a 404 error. No Decepticons here! I don't know if this is spoilers, but yeah, it basically never comes up.

misteriGILER: thanks for the encouragement, I hope you enjoy!

**Two Friends, a Leap of Faith, and a Stumble**

For security purposes, their courting would be discreet, ignoring all Cybertronian traditions and avoiding anything resembling any of the myriad human practices as best as possible. Granted, Optimus hardly saw the point – it wasn't like he was some maiden just leaving the home of her mother, naïve to the company of other mechs, or as if his mother was alive to approve or reject potential husbands. But Ironhide was distrustful of this decision, and so refused to participate without _some_ prelude.

Under an early spring rain shower, the two sparred in the open training grounds. The human soldiers had retreated into their domiciles, and once the younger mechs realized they would only receive stray mud sprays from watching and no spectacle, they too had departed to wait out the weather. Ironhide was taking the opportunity to find Optimus' mistaken habits from his previous body mass and strength and beat them out of him as effectively as possible. When compared to courtship with Elita it could hardly be called romantic. But after eons of war, sparring with Ironhide proved familiar, comfortable, and soothing in its own way. It would do.

For the countless time, Optimus attempted a pin on his sparring partner, miscalculated his center of weight, and was in turn rolled by Ironhide's side and pinned to the ground. The black mech had used a different pin this time, which more effectively prevented Optimus from repeating his tactics of kicking or twisting free. The pin also placed the black mech's torso within exhaust distance of Optimus'. A gasp of warm air from Ironhide's lateral vents onto his cold, rain dripping back plating sent a spark up his spine, and Optimus couldn't repress his quiver.

Ironhide seemed to realize, an agonizingly long moment later, the position he'd placed himself in. At first there was a relaxation of the grip on his arm, and not a moment later his weapon's specialist was crouching back and away. Optimus rolled over, blinking his optic shutters to try and deal with the rain streaming over his vision. Ironhide merely squatted above the mud, rain wending down his armor in streams as over any other part of the landscape.

"Another?" Optimus proposed, raising himself up to a reclined position on his elbows. Ironhide frowned further, a look of such intense focus Optimus for a moment imagined himself on the distant end of Ironhide's sight, a skilled killer gazing down his gun…but then the black mech merely twitched his brows and shook his head.

Without ceremony, he turned and left. Optimus watched him walk towards the ocean before the rain and fog obscured him from view, then collapsed back into the mud. It seemed more and more that Ironhide was becoming an impenetrable fortress, whose inner workings and defenses could not be puzzled out or breached. He desperately hoped the cost of the future of their species did not include their friendship.

#########################

They sparred. They played chess. They sat just far enough apart on biweekly movie nights. One month and they were called out on a mission at an ethanol refinery in Brazil.

Optimus came back limping from a near-miss shot that grazed the thigh. It was nothing. It was enough.

Ratchet shooed Ironhide out of the medbay when he skirted the edge of hovering, under the curious but drugged up gaze of a damaged Beachcomber. The armor of his thigh was removed for patching, and the underlying components checked, soldered, and gelled. A wrapping of stretch film held the nutrient gel in place, and after chiding him to be gentle on the plastic Ratchet released Optimus with orders for recharge.

The medbay door rolled open, and of course Ironhide stood right outside. He took a long look at Optimus' thigh. The door rolled shut behind him.

"Ironhide," Optimus began, but Ironhide cut him off, shaking his head.

"Optimus– " it came out with a buzz of static. Ironhide looked him strait in the optics and grabbed his hand. Their EM fields couldn't help but overlap, and for a moment the cold fear tingling in Ironhide's field froze Optimus in place. "Don't, don't – I will not allow you to do it again!"

Optimus didn't know what to say. He held Ironhide's gaze, tasted the fear and determination in his field, and for the moment forget entirely about the possibility of prying eyes. Then Ironhide's expression softened, and he pulled his EM field in close. Optimus felt guilty for the palpable relief the emotional distance was, but another part of his spark kept his hand desperately clinging to Ironhide's. Ironhide stepped back, tugging on their connection.

"C'mon, doc says recharge. I'll walk you to the garage."

At first they strolled slowly, but after only a half dozen steps Optimus' leg succumbed to its damage and Ratchet's numbing agent. Ironhide silently brought the arm he held over his shoulders, and together they dragged the lame leg to the Autobot barracks. By the time they made into the quarters, Optimus' fans whirred at full speed and the good leg wobbled with exhaustion.

When Ironhide seemed ready to lower him onto the nearest berth, he refused. Since his transformation, he'd developed the habit of sleeping in the back, away from the activities of those not quite ready to drop offline. And away from any uneasy interactions. Fortunately, though they said nothing, Ironhide seemed to understand, and did not resist his stubborn insistence on hobbling away from the door. Sideswipe and Jolt peaked silent looks but made no comment on their progress.

At last, a berth in the corner. Ironhide helped him settle down, kneeling next to him. The black mech hadn't yet let go of his hand. Optimus' recharge initialization program didn't mind. Just as he began to drift into dark waters of unconsciousness, a touch on his cheek plate, and then he sank under.

#########################

Late the next morning Optimus woke groggy and disoriented, staring at the ceiling of the Autobot's recharge hangar. An experimental body shift revealed himself to be in bipedal mode, unusual for recharge, and also a stiff leg – of course, the mission. Ratchet had ordered him to refrain from transforming until given approval. Beams of midday equatorial sunlight already pierced the still air of the hangar, lighting floating dust motes and pooling on the floor opposite the row of windows near the ceiling. Aside from the sound of his own gears, the hangar was silent and empty.

Optimus sat up, resting the basals of his feat on the floor. Because of his long legs he was almost squatting to sit on the foam recharge platform, and the position forced him to gingerly extend the injured leg in order to examine it. Fortunately for him, Cybertronians did not tend towards restlessness in recharge, and the stretch film had been little disturbed. An experimental probing of the area still elicited tenderness, though improved. Optimus was about to try levering himself up to test the limp when Ironhide quietly padded into the still space.

Optimus watched in silence as his weapon's specialist made his way over from the entrance to the berth Optimus had chosen, in the back and out of the bustle.

"You're awake." Suddenly, he produced a cube of energon from subspace. "Here, Ratchet's orders."

"Thank you," Optimus said, taking the cube. He sipped slowly, drawing the energon out. Ironhide, Primus blessed, fidgeted. Optimus scooted over, and taking the hint the smaller mech squat down next to him, though he just stared off quietly into space. Optimus finished the cube, fiddling with the empty container.

"Ironhide, last night, before I fell into recharge…" Optimus started.

"You weren't out?" Ironhide said, surprised. "Damn, Optimus. I shoulda asked, I'm sorry."

"I don't mind. Though, what exactly did you do? I hope it wasn't anything too, too…Sideswipe and Jolt were watching, you know." Optimus finished awkwardly. Ironhide scraped one foot against the cement.

"Nothin' they coulda seen. I know it should be quiet. Pit, Optimus, I'm starting to see a lot of things you saw straight from the beginning. And…" He trailed off. Optimus looked up from his cube.

"And what?"

"Primus' hands, Optimus, if that's what brought you back like this…" Ironhide reached out, tentatively resting one of his own hands on Optimus' uninjured thigh. Optimus sat still, tight as a crossbow. Ironhide continued, "He knew just how to build a femme I could barely keep away from."

Optimus sat frozen under that touch for a small eternity. After a few tense moments, Ironhide moved to pull away, but while his vocalizer refused to respond, Optimus' hands were not so reserved, and he quickly placed a hand of his own over Ironhide's to hold it in place. Though his spark pulsed rapidly in his chest and his thigh tingled, Optimus tried to ignore his body to consider the situation logically. He was injured. It had only been a month. They'd already begun to lose discretion.

He'd been injured after barely a month, and midday with an empty hangar provided the best opportunity they might get for a long while.

"Ironhide, I think you should close the door and lock it. Here," a quick transmission burst of Optimus' codes – only Ratchet possessed the override. Ironhide looked at him soberly with his good optic. Then he went to the door, calmly triggered it shut and entered the code. Meanwhile, Optimus could barely restrain nervous fidgeting of his own. Despite his nervousness, the tingle on his thigh had spread, and he fought to ignore the foreign familiar sensation of his interface array booting up.

"You wanna lie back down?" Ironhide asked when he got back, kneeling next to him. Optimus nodded sharply, and lay down on his back, shifting his injured leg until it was comfortable.

"I'm afraid I've never done this with mech before," he said, somewhat embarrassed. Ironhide nodded.

"I thought you might have with Magnus, but it don't surprise me that you didn't."

"No, he was very shy, even after we married Elita." Optimus explained. It hurt to think about his long absent cousin and wife, though, so instead he took one of Ironhide's hands in his own and brought it to his lips, trailing kisses down the fingers and palm. Ironhide brought the other hand over, back to his thigh, massaging and working fingers under the armor. A jolt went down his leg and into his groin when Ironhide found a somatosensory wire, tenderly rubbing it with the tip of a blunt finger.

Optimus let out a gasp, and Ironhide took the opportunity to capture his mouth in a kiss. Optimus rested his hands on Ironhide's hips, Ironhide brought his to Optimus' sides, and they lost themselves in the tingling scrape of labials, small jolts passing between the tips of their tongues. Optimus felt his whole body charging up, in a way that he couldn't remember ever having felt before. Had it truly been so long, or was it this new body? The hot caress of Ironhide's EMF blending with his own distracted him from dwelling, and he broke the kiss for a moan. In the silence of the cavernous hangar the spinning of their fans sounded too loud to've just started.

"You sure about this?" Ironhide asked, though he started stroking Optimus' flanks.

"Ironhide…yes. We need to do this." Optimus reached a hand behind his head, pulling him into another heated kiss, and Ironhide's reservations finally seemed to dissipate. He swung a leg around, straddling Optimus' waist, careful of the injured thigh. Ironhide's interface panel burned where it contacted Optimus' plating.

Soon enough, the touching turned more desperate, exploratory fingers less gentle, and Optimus could no longer ignore the alien ache between his thighs. As Ironhide drew his mouth across Optimus' clavicle seam, Optimus felt his interface panel retract suddenly, a small heated breeze flowing across his throbbing valve. Ironhide sat back at the swish, though he kept his hands on Optimus' abdomen. As soon as he caught sight of Optimus' groin, his engine growled and his cooling fans ratcheted up a notch further.

"Primus, Optimus, it shouldn't be possible." A hand trailed down his flank. "Can I?" Ironhide gestured. Optimus just nodded. Then he let his helm drop back to the foam, biting down a groan, as Ironhide dipped a finger into his slick opening. Optimus resisted the urge to twist away from the strange sensation, but at the same time felt another pulse of lubricant release at Ironhide's ministrations. Ironhide started kissing down his abdomen, nuzzling his middle, while the wet digit intermittently explored his valve and traced the opening. After a few minutes, Ironhide added another finger to the inside, curling and massaging the tight walls.

"Good?" He asked. Optimus whimpered a yes, his legs unconsciously spreading to allow better access. He brought one hand to rest on the back of Ironhide's head, and suffered a disorienting moment of déjà vu as his processor recalled a memory of Elita-One, her face teasingly close to his rigid spike…Then Ironhide demonstrated his talent for reading Optimus' mind, and his tongue lapped the valve's rim. Optimus clenched his hands, the one resting on Ironhide's head yanking at a transmitter flange. But Ironhide didn't seem to mind, only increasing the teasing licks, and a few minutes later adding a third finger.

Optimus finally, gently using both hands, moved Ironhide away. The black mech's fingers continued to massage his valve though.

"Wanna move on?" Ironhide asked curiously.

"Don't you want any warm up?" Optimus offered politely, though he was apprehensive. It's not as though he didn't have his own experiences to draw on, what his own mechtool had responded to, he reminded himself.

"Optimus, if I get much more warmed up, I'm gonna melt to slag."

"But your panel…" The burly mech quickly retracted it with a sigh of relief, his drill emerging hard and dribbling. Optimus winced. "That can't have been comfortable for you." Ironhide just shrugged.

"I coulda waited a bit longer," he said, though he didn't deny it. Optimus couldn't take his eyes off the extremely male organ jutting from his longtime friend's groin. He knew from millennia of serving together that it was a touch shorter than his own spike had been, but to his new optics…the thought of it replacing Ironhide's fingers was intimidating, he could admit to himself.

"How you wanna do this?" Ironhide asked, pressing his spike into the crook of Optimus' thigh, stroking the sensitive joint.

"When we weren't spark-merging, Elita," Optimus licked his lips, overcoming his discomfort, "Elita liked dockscrubber. Maybe we could…"

"You think your leg's up for it?"

"The weight will all be on the knee." Ironhide nodded, then moved to the side. Optimus used shaky limbs to roll over on the mat, but his embarrassment prevented him from quite fully assuming the position. Then he felt Ironhide's hand gain full holds on his hips, pulling them back and up. Their fields melded more fully again as the black mech rested his chassis across Optimus' back, his lips not quite reaching Optimus' neck. Optimus shivered with the storm of charge between them.

"Just relax," Ironhide said in his gruff way. Then the tip of his spike probed Optimus entrance. One hand disappeared from his thigh to help guide it, and slowly the thick head was pressing in, pushing against the resistance from Optimus' maiden port. Optimus bit down on a finger as Ironhide seated himself fully, his fingers twitching against the Prime's thighs.

"Prime?"

"I'm fine," Optimus said. "Why don't you," he pressed back a bit with a grunt of static. Ironhide started rolling his hips, and the initial discomfort of being overstretched did start to fade. Gradually Ironhide built up the pace, at first slowly working his drill in and out, then speeding to a steady pace of deep thrusts. Optimus rocked with the thrusts, his waist pivoting forward and back. As he began to relax, the jolts of overstimulation morphed into pleasure, the charge he'd started when Ironhide fingered him building into a storm.

Suddenly the pace changed, Ironhide rapidly jackhammering at his valve. A crackle of energy jumped across Optimus' back from what he startlingly realized were Ironhide's partially open chest plates, and then the full front of Ironhide's overload crashed into him through their merged fields. More unsettling, though, was the bolt of energy that worked its way up inside him, accompanied by Ironhide's nanofluid. But the donated power from Ironhide ignored his momentary shock of disgust, forcing him over into his own overload.

A small part of his processor noted that overloading as a mech didn't compare to as a femme – instead of donating energy, the femme received it all in an attempt to stimulate the spark enough to bud. But without spark contact there could be no budding, and here and now the donated energy ricocheted around his systems. Limbs shook, fans stuttered, armor rattled, and the overload just went on and on…

#########################

Optimus jerked back awake some time later. This time he found himself laid on his side, warm metal curled at his back, and a distinctive silver hand on his hip. The rays of the sun had progressed some distance across the wall, and checking his chronometer he say that a few hours had passed since he last awoke.

Shifting, he winced. Apparently his injured leg had not appreciated the activity after all. Further, his interface array was quite sore, and, he discovered, still exposed to the open air. His inner thighs and groin were chill from his own drying lubricant. Grimacing, he pulled a rag from subspace, intending to wipe himself clean.

He couldn't do it. He'd lower his hand, but instead of his familiar spike he found only gaping space where _it should have been_. After several attempts his hand was shaking so badly he could hardly cling on to the rag.

"Optimus?" Ironhide stirred behind him. "Optimus, what's wrong?" His weapon's specialist, his oldest friend, and now his lover, sat up quickly to look down on him. "Are you in pain?"

Optimus just shook his head, but meanwhile the tremors had spread, and now both arms and legs were rattling wildly. Ironhide was looking down at him with an expression of pure agony, and he had never felt more shame for failure in his entire life.

"I'm s-sorry, my friend," he spat out, his vocalizer not responding properly – and now he knew he was crying as well, tears of lubricant trailing down the side of his face. "I d-don't, d-don't," but Ironhide shushed him, rubbing Optimus' back.

"Here," Ironhide said, taking the cloth from his hand and moving to dab off his thighs, but Optimus reflexively jerked them shut and up, curling in on himself. Ironhide continued to rub his back soothingly, and Optimus persisted in trying to still his trembling limbs and compose himself. He continued to fail utterly.

A few moments later and from where he didn't know, Ratchet appeared at the head of the bed, and his guilt multiplied.

"Optimus, can you look into this light? Good, good, I'm going to give you a mild sedative, alright?" Optimus jerkily nodded, and the medic skillfully inserted a needle into a shoulder line. Then Ratchet gingerly took one of his shaking hands in his own.

"We're going to check signal strength. I want you to squeeze my hand now, as strong as you can, alright, good, now just the first finger, now the second…" By the time he was prompting to squeeze with just his third finger, Optimus' tremors had stilled; by the fourth, Optimus had fallen offline.


	6. Two Friends, a Loss, and a Gain

A/N: Thanks to all the alerts and faves, guys!

Borath: Yeah, Optimus' gender identity is still, incontrovertibly, 'he'. He's been a 'he' for thousands of years, and it might be thousands more (or never) before Optimus would think of himself as a 'she'. I'm glad you've noticed that! I wanted to emphasize that sex and gender identity are not the same thing; a lot of this fic is dealing with the fact that Optimus doesn't really know what to make of/hasn't really fully realized that distinction.

ElitasLove: As for the fingering, there's two possible answers. One, the meta reason, is that this fic was originally written for a kink request, and so making the sex more resemble humans in the real world goes towards making it a little more clearly erotic. Two, the 'in universe' reason, is that sensory systems are coded to pick up certain types of information, and make don't care about the source. That is, picking up pressure/movement feels good, whether it comes from a finger or a penis equivalent. Of course, in the real world, a huge part of sexual pleasure is in our heads, so theoretically you could loath fingering, but no need to give Optimus more neuroses than he needs.

Peya Luna: As I have chatted a bit with Borath about above, Optimus still identifies as a 'he', so in the future no need to be confused about which pronoun to use. It's definitely true that in certain ways Optimus is inexperienced, but what he was referring to in the previous chapter was a different sort of experience. Femmes lived very cloistered lives on Cybertron, particularly before they reached maturity, and what he was referring to is that he could hardly be considered naive to the ways of the world and the evil in people's hearts. And yes, traditional Cybertronian family structure involved polygamy. There'll be an author's note at the end of the chapter explaining a lot of the background that has so far only been hinted at. Don't peek!

**Two Friends, a Loss, and a Gain**

"Grrrrrr!" Ratchet gave an inarticulate growl of his engine, slamming the medical cabinet shut with a clang. Ironhide stood over the prone form of their Prime, laid out on a medberth and still off like a switch.

"I can't believe you went ahead and did that!" Ratchet spat at him icily, though his hands were tender as they checked Optimus' injured thigh and newly used interface array. "Go and clean up. Go. In the corner, there's a hose."

Ironhide delayed a moment, trapped by the swirling, conflicting emotions in his spark. Then he purposefully strode over to the indicated spigot to clean himself up. He was rough with the hose, jerking the water pressure wheel with more force than necessary. He didn't bother to find a sponge, but instead just took his anger out on his plating, scraping under the stream with his fingers at the dried lubricant still marring his interface array and thighs, caked up with dust and sand from the trip over from the barracks. Meanwhile, he could hear Ratchet muttering and growling to himself in the background.

Pit damned. _Pit damned_. Ironhide couldn't help recalling all the events of the last few days, looping and looping the conversations, Optimus' expressions…And then, thinking back over the past few weeks, all their interactions, their 'courtship'. He knew this was a bad idea. Not that their software was incompatible…Hell, he had to admit to himself, Optimus might not be the primed cannon Chromia had been millennia ago, but there were similarities. Stubbornness, for one. _Pit damned_ stubbornness, when it leads to slag like this. Ironhide yanked the pressure off and tossed the hose aside, not bothering to loop it up.

"How is…she?" Ironhide asked when he returned to the foot of the berth. Ratchet glanced up at him, flicked his optics over his plating, then turned back to his patient. He had a wedge shaped sponge, which he was working delicately over the tender circuitry – unlike Ironhide, he'd removed some of Optimus' thigh plating to make sure he had full access.

"There's no more damage than might be expected, 'breaking in' new equipment." Ratchet said with acid on his lips.

"I'm sorry, Ratch'. I thought," Ironhide shook his head. No, he thought, you didn't think. You just couldn't resist any more. Disappointment rusted at his spark, eating him away. Even now, sedated unconscious, injured, dirty – Optimus was beautiful. A slender thoracic joint, powerful thighs trailing down gracefully. He'd lost width in the chest plate area, but regained some of it as an angular bust, modest and sleek. His face, before handsome, now spark-hauntingly beautiful: a gentle priestess and a fierce war queen. Deep reverence, affection, and with a curl of disgust, attraction warred within him.

"Optimus wanted to do it," he said quietly. "I tried to do right, but…" Ratchet stood up, flared his armor in a stretch and let it resettle.

"'Hide," he sighed, "No, I don't blame you. If I could slug Primus or whatever did this a new one, I would." He shook the sponge futilely above the soapy bucket, squeezing the water out forcefully. "This isn't just from the 'face, and you know it. That was just the virus that crashed the system." Ratchet moved the bucket to the floor, and started piecing Optimus' armor back on.

"How do we help, Ratch'?" Ratchet turned to look at him.

"By Primus, I wish I knew. I looked, you know. When this first happened, I sent a request up to the Ark's medical database to see if that old rustbucket had anything useful. I thought, _maybe there's a case study, some unusual spark who reformatted like this_. Or, _maybe a record of some Decepticon psychological warfare_. If such a thing ever happened, the Ark didn't know about it." Ironhide was silent.

"And now, oh ho ho. Now Optimus wants to get sparked. At the tail end of our Great War, on some backwater mudball." Ratchet snorted, picked up the bucket, and walked over to dump it over a drain. "I been workin' this problem, _physically_, and we can do it. Once or twice, maybe, we've got the raw resources for now, depending on how big the protoform ends up. More if we dig up some 'Cons out of the ocean. But you want to tell me, can we do this tactically? More importantly, can _Optimus_ do this?"

"Tactically," Ironhide frowned, and started to pace a circle around the room. "The problem is, Optimus wouldn't suggest it if we really couldn't handle engagements without him. We can, especially now with Trailbreaker as another heavy hitter. Fact is, the 'Cons are gettin' more harried, and the humans are aiming their guns better. The other day, in Brazil," Ironhide paused to think back over the mission, "We woulda shooed 'em off. Maybe the plant woulda gone up, maybe some more ethanol woulda been stolen, but in the end we'd still have won. Decepticon half-wins like that for a while wouldn't turn the tide on this planet, just drag the damn thing out." He went silent contemplating the still form on the medbirth. "Prime, though…"

"The problem there is," Ratchet said for him, "Prime has a stubborn streak as wide as a slagging aircraft carrier, and the homing instincts of a kamikaze pilot."

"Optimus'll never take his own good as a reason to wait, and we both know it," Ironhide finished, resigned. He felt the defeat of this knowledge for the second time, the first being when Optimus had first argued his intentions. Ratchet had sat down on a stool, and was rubbing his face in his hands.

"How do _you_ feel about all this?" He suddenly asked. "Can you handle it? Being the only father to at least one microchip? And what if Optimus decides it's better for the species to vary it. Can you handle sharing with bots who aren't your brothers?" Ironhide curled his mouth in a grimace. During the past few weeks, during the secret courting, he'd tried to put out of his mind the fact that all his brothers and cousins were long gone. And the fact that Optimus might feel the need for other partners. The child, though…

"I never had a kid before. My wife, Chromia, she sparked only once. It didn't really…It didn't work out." He let that settle a moment. But the hurt was old, old, old for him. Compared to recent events, it couldn't compete for space in his spark.

"Was it yours, do you know? What went wrong?" Ratchet had sat up, stiff.

"Ratch'…"

"No, Ironhide, this could be medically important." He thrust out a finger. "I will not go knowingly endangering Optimus' health! If you know in the past – "

"It wasn't mine. It wasn't a brother's. We got our resonances tested after. It was my cousin's. Being Allsparked, his resonance just happened to be pretty different from ours. Incompatible with hers, somehow. The spark didn't live very long. Didn't ever even protoform." Ratchet stared at him, hard.

"Sparking Optimus and having the spark extinguish, or the protoform misconstruct, or the delivery turn to the Pit, in this ill-equipped hanger," he threw his hands out, sweeping his arms to indicate his medbay, "is the most terrifying and unacceptable thought imaginable. So you had better be telling me the Primus lit truth, or so help me, Unicron will look at your remains and throw up his hands at a job done for him."

"You think I would _ever_ do something like this if I thought it was gonna go that way? You and I both know it, that if that happened," Ironhide choked on the memory, "If that happened, Optimus wouldn't recover. I don't know how Chromia did. She was – if she was sparked a tank, that might have been more appropriate. She could take anything life shot at her and keep going." Rage boiled up through Ironhide, but he checked himself. For once, he knew, even without EMF contact, that the rage he felt would be mirrored under chartreuse armor.

"But no, I wouldn't mind it – having a microchip around. And as for the other," Ironhide had to purposefully restrain his engine from shifting up, "as for the other, what else am I gonna do about it? You ever heard of Cybertronians pairing up like the humans? Even at the top, Elita-One had more than one husband. _A single miner finds defeat, a team of miners, lots to eat_, right?."

"Contrary to old adages, it's not actually necessary to have more than one partner to spark. Believe me, that misconception led to far too many _actual_ conceptions." Ratchet shook his head. "Otherwise, why would I approve this venture between you and Prime?" Ironhide didn't have an answer to that.

"Think on it." Ratchet concluded. "Alright, well, you lazy old slagger, don't you have duties today?" Ratchet stood up from the stool, joints groaning. "I know Beachcomber's arm is hardly going to repair itself. I'll comm. you when it looks like Optimus is coming up, if he's in a state for conversation."

Ironhide dwelled next to Optimus' berth as Ratchet moved over to a worktable, hastily abandoned at his earlier, frantic call for help. He reached a hand out to rest on a strangely delicate arm. He wrestled with himself, and finally spoke.

"Maybe there's some other reason then. Maybe for Cybertronians, one mech and one femme ain't enough. And if that's true, and one mech ain't enough…Well, I could do worse than you for a cousin, Ratch'. And I think some microchips couldn't hope for a better father." Ironhide looked up from Optimus. From the back, he couldn't see Ratchet's expression, only a hand with pliers, frozen and trembling above the worktable.

"Think on it," Ironhide concluded.

* * *

AN: Some more bits of the version of Cybertronian culture in the fic revealed in this section. By now I think that if you have questions about some of the culture, history, or background of the fic I can go ahead and answer them without worries. Earlier I wanted to dole the info out, but because of chapter four and this one I think it's mostly out, except for some specifics that don't need to be explained in fic (why would people who lived through it explain it to each other?).

GIANT BACKGROUND DUMP (courtesy my head):

As you may know, different cultures have different systems for how they 'separate' categories of relatives. In most western cultures, for example, it doesn't matter whether you are talking about an older or younger brother, it is always the same word, 'brother'. Nor does it matter if an uncle is related to you by your father or mother, it's always uncle. Some cultures have different delineations.

For the purposes of this fic, I invented Cybertronian rules for what you call a relative. General principle is this: if they are your generation and related to you by your mother (ie, English full brother or half-brother by the mother) they are called a brother. If they are your generation but not related to you by your mom, they are a "cousin". I put this in quotes because English obviously has no equivalent, and I'm using cousin as a stand in. This could be from a number of ways. The most common is by getting an Allsparked child, essentially. A rare possibility would be if your mother died, your fathers remarried, and they had another child. Or, another rare situation, some portion of your fathers split off with a new wife.

For referring to parents, it's pretty simple. You have one mother. To account for gender imbalances, Cybertronian society is heavily polyandrous, that is femmes usually have several husbands, ranging from just a couple in higher social castes to up to a dozen or so in low social castes. Anyone married to your mother when you are born is called 'father'. Keep in mind that all fathers are closely related to each other, as all male siblings/cousins together usually marry one wife. (check out wikipedia on fraternal polyandry if you're curious about some human cultures with similar systems)

So, in the past, Ironhide had literal brothers and cousins with whom he together was married to Chromia. As creeptacular as it sounds, Optimus, Megatron (his brother), and Ultra Magnus (an Allsparked cousin to the two) all were married to Elita-One. Aaaaaaand when Megatron went crazy he brutally murdered Elita, because she never liked him as much as Optimus and Magnus. That was actually referenced at the end of the first chapter.

At the end, Ironhide is suggesting that since his literal relations are dead, Ratchet should become a sort of metaphorical sibling, and join into the relationship.


	7. Two Mechs, One Femme, and a Decision

Shi-koi: It's not mentioned yet, but yes, Optimus does actually have the same voice. I decided that voice timber had no relation to sex in Cybertronians - just as hair color has no relation to sex in humans, contrary to any number of other animal or bird species.

femme4jack: I've never read "Sex at Dawn", but you're correct in that in Cybertronian society it was considered better to have multiple fathers.

Optimus'girl: I don't know if you read the footnotes at the end of the last chapter or not, but I want to make clear that Ironhide's cousin didn't go 'behind his back'. Chromia was married to multiple mechs, including Ironhide, his brothers, and his cousins. Also, as Ironhide explained, the problem that Chromia encountered was unrelated to him, to there's very little likelihood of it happening. Finally, there was no chance of Optimus getting pregnant. Their sparks didn't merge. That was merely Optimus' first attempt as sex as a femme, to try it out, get familiar with Ironhide in bed, etc.

Borath: Well, I try to have the two of them come to the conclusion that no matter what they said, they wouldn't be _able_ to talk Optimus out of his crazy scheme. Also, sadly, they are all pragmatists, and Optimus does have a point about the whole last femme alive thing. The statement was issued in the background, yeah. It's effects will be touched on (briefly) in the next chapter.

Peya Luna: You basically listed all my logic, which is great, because it means I'm not off the deep end. Glad you liked the affectionate "microchips" :)

**Two Mechs, One Femme, and a Decision**

The first thing that pierced the fog in his processor was a noise, a hissing, spitting, crackle. The crackle died, and small tapping, a scrape, and then mutters replaced it. Optimus was not afraid, but his processors worked to recognize the sounds, give them meaning. The crackle returned, and suddenly it came to him, in a flash, the image of a welder, sparks jumping.

He was in the medbay. Why was he in the medbay?

Oh.

Optimus did nothing for several moments, except reflect back on the most recent events. He felt a deep shame. What could have caused him to overreact so egregiously? The…event was certainly not the most unpleasant experience in his life – far from it, in his recollection, though he skirted the edges of the memory. However, he couldn't prevent himself from dwelling on the end result.

Optimus was startled alert by a touch, his optics coming on in a flash, hydraulics engaging.

"And how long have you been online for, hm?" Ratchet said from his side, his hand still resting on Optimus' arm. Optimus checked his chronometer.

"Perhaps 20 minutes," he said truthfully, and with some surprise. Ratchet regarded him for a moment, and Optimus acknowledged and granted access to his wireless diagnostic check. Ratchet harrumphed.

"Well, let's get you up, at least," so saying, he helped Optimus turn to sit on the edge of the berth. Optimus experienced a fair amount of visual feed lag, and swayed momentarily as the information from his optics and gyros normalized. When his vision returned to normalcy, he noticed Ratchet dragging over his favorite stool, shrieking against the concrete. When he made a move to stand, Ratchet sent him a glare that almost physically pushed his aft back to the berth.

Ratchet sat down with intense finality. But then, strangely, seemed unable to start. Optimus' shame and weariness crept up on his spark like a heavy fog. Very well.

"Ratchet, please, accept my deepest apologies for what has brought us here." Ratchet stiffened, leaning backwards, piercing medical optics set into his own. Then they reset, and the medic was laughing. Laughing! Optimus hadn't believed it possible to feel deeper remorse over the incident, but knowing one of his dearest friends would take it so…

"Don't, oh, don't get that look," Ratchet said, waving a hand at him dismissively, "I think absolutely nothing about this is a laughing matter. Except the fact that I'm amazed, of all the things you might have said, you've once again managed to surprise me." Though here the chartreuse mech shook his head wryly. "Really, Prime, only you could try to apologize to me for doing my job like that."

"I think – "

"Yes, I know, sometimes you let your processor mire you down until you blame yourself when I trip over a tool I dropped and forgot about. The fact of the matter is, a short while ago, your evil brother was resurrected, he killed you, you _died_, were resurrected, had to murder an evil ancestor, and in the middle there had your physical sex altered." Ratchet leaned forward, reaching out a hand to rest on top of Optimus'. "Optimus, first, let me tell you, that is a perfectly natural reaction to high levels of stress, and second, don't deny it, the past few months have been quite stressful."

"I – " Optimus considered the medic's hand, delicate for a mech, more robust than his own. Truthfully, though, after the unsettling realization about his valve, such small things failed to elicit the previous levels of discomfort. He felt he had become numb to the disorientation of navigating the world in a strange ship. "I have endured stressful conditions before," he defended quietly.

"Of course you have," Ratchet stroked his thumb across Optimus' fingers as he continued, "we all have. But none of us have been through _this_ before. I told Ironhide, not long ago, that I could find no record of _any_ Cybertronian reformatting this way. So, a novel situation for everyone involved: of course we're all going to mis-forge things the first time around. Including your medic, for not taking note of the stressor levels on his patients and addressing them." Ratchet said this ruefully, though Optimus, through their close EMFs, knew at least some true regret lay behind the words.

"Even an outstanding doctor will have difficulties with recalcitrant patients," Optimus said back, bringing his optics up to 'wink' at his friend.

"Hmm, I'll grant you that one. Of course, the question now is how to prevent a re-occurrence. You wouldn't consider postponing this whole crazy sparkling venture for a while, would you?"

"Ratchet," Optimus started, brows furrowed, but Ratchet just shook his head.

"Of course not." Optimus had no reply, and so he waited passively as Ratchet seemed to contemplate the situation. He felt as though all the energon had been drained out of him. He thought back on all the tragedies their war had thrust upon their people, a slow death only one of them. Ratchet's words called to mind the betrayal of Megatron, his own brother, and the recently brought to light involvement of an ancient, Fallen Prime. His optics flickered over to the 'reclamation cabinet', quickly dropping away to Beachcomber's prone form.

He felt a new rush a resolve saturate his spark then. Their people had survived betrayal and catastrophe of every form to arrive at this safe haven, and in protecting it, their energon soaked the Earth. Optimus tightened his grip on Ratchet's hand. The medic, curiously, turned his focus back to his Prime.

"Ratchet, I will do everything in my power to see this through. Of course, it would be preferable if the consequences were not so severe," Optimus said at Ratchet's frown, "so of course, if you have any advice on mitigating actions, I would not hesitate to listen. And perhaps," here he coughed awkwardly, "Ironhide should listen as well." Ratchet withdrew his hand, rubbing his own knee with it.

"I'm glad you brought it up, actually. I promised him I would let him know once you'd rebooted, so I'll comm. him over, and tell him to leave some time." The medic's optics dimmed as he activated his internal comm., then he returned his focus to the medbay. "He said he'll be here in a few. Let me check that Beachcomber is still out solidly, before we get much further. Oh, the leg should be fine for testing, if you want to stand up a bit now."

Optimus delicately paced the length of the hanger, as Ratchet first fiddled at his worktable, then moved over to check on Beachcomber's status. The walk rejuvenated him, even over such a short distance, and returning Optimus felt not confidant, but fortified. As he neared his own berth, the hanger door slide away, and Ironhide entered. The two of them stood frozen for a moment, Ironhide clearly, and uncharacteristically, unsure of himself, trapped in what Optimus knew were bad memories.

Optimus felt an intense need to reassure him, that no, none of this was his causing, and impulsively he stepped forward to take Ironhide's hand in his own.

"Please, don't blame yourself for any of this," Optimus, leaning down, whispered in Ironhide's audial. Burning with embarrassment, in a rush he continued, "That is, I actually quite enjoyed our time together, but…" Ironhide tilted his head, his stubby nose brushing against Optimus' cheek. Their fields mingled, and there was guilt in both, and yet relief in that too, and Optimus relaxed against the smaller mech.

"I hear ya," he said, squeezing Optimus' hand. They stayed there a moment, before Optimus remembered they were not alone, and straightened back up and away. Ironhide glanced over at Ratchet, but the medic didn't meet his gaze, instead turning to sit back down on his stool.

"Well?" Ironhide said into the deathly still air of the medbay. Optimus flicked his gaze back and forth between the two mechs, curious as to the meaning behind the question. What _had_ they been saying to one another while he was unconscious? Or was this an earlier interaction, and Optimus had merely missed the signs? He would find out soon enough.

"Well, what?" Optimus asked, with as much authority as he could. He released Ironhide's hand, moving over to stand between the medic and the weapons specialist, and crossed his arms. The two mechs said nothing. "Now I know you have been discussing something of importance. You haven't lied to me yet – do not begin now."

"Optimus," Ratchet began, a foreign, hesitant expression on his face.

"What, you didn't tell him anything?" Ironhide interrupted, moving closer. His face, as usual, expressed little other than frustration, but Optimus knew better than that. Ironhide was anxious, as well.

"Why, instead of arguing, don't you tell me now. This way, you can tell me together – perhaps that is better in any case." Optimus said, before a bickering match could start.

"Optimus, I was thinkin'…" Ironhide trailed off uncomfortably. He glanced to Ratchet, but the medic merely shook his head minutely. "I, look, I ain't good with words, so this might come out wrong. But yesterday afternoon, when, well, after Ratchet patched you up…I just think, look, how long have we been together as a team?"

"Thousands of years," Optimus said. It would be foolish to count out grains of sand.

"So I think it's fair to say we pretty much know everything there is to know, right?" Optimus, furrowed his brow, confused at the tangent. He watched Ratchet out of the periphery of his vision, but the medic was still as a statue.

"Perhaps," he said in reply.

"I just think – look, with what happened…I know, and I think you should know from too much experience, I ain't meant handle that kind of thing," Ironhide said under his breath, gaze on the floor. Optimus' spark stuttered.

"Are you saying you don't want to continue?" It hurt to say, which was and was not a surprise. Ironhide stiffened, jerking his helm up to meet Optimus' optics earnestly.

"No! That's, that's kinda the opposite of what I'm saying." Ironhide raised a hand to gesture at Ratchet. Optimus gazed at the medic.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Prime, I'm saying, I don't think I know how to do you right alone. You ever hear the word _'couple'_ before?" he asked, bringing the English term into the discussion. Optimus almost staggered back in surprise, looking to Ratchet, whose familiar faceplates indeed revealed his anxiety. And yet, Optimus knew the emotion well in his own spark, as well as on the face of a medic who labored too hard over fallen comrades: determination.

"Prime, let me be the one to say," Ratchet started, servos fisted on his lap, "I understand if you don't want to court me as well. It's certainly not conventional. But let me also say that I am here in any capacity you need me. Ironhide seems to think, well," Ratchet shrugged helplessly, "maybe there's something to be said for the Cybertronian way beyond population sex imbalances." He shook his head, and concluded, "I just have to say, Ironhide's right about one thing – you all, our team, you're the closest things to brothers and cousins a bot's got. Primus."

Optimus let their words sink in in the following quiet. While in some ways it might have been even less conventional than what he and Ironhide were carrying out, in other ways it would be more familiar. As the surprise bled away, Optimus recognized that there was reason behind what they said. But still…

"Come here," he said, raising his arms expectantly. The two mechs glanced at each other. "Both of you." The medic stood up, and the weapons specialist moved closer, hesitant, but Optimus would have none of that, and wrapped one arm over each of their shoulders. They fit together well, actually, the two shorter mechs just the right height to fit against him, and he pulled them close.

At first the two mechs were stiff, unsure. But, unavoidable in the embrace, their three EM fields mingled, and anxiety gave way to contentment. Ah, now his worries could rest. Optimus touched his forehead first to Ironhide's, then to Ratchet's.

"Well," he whispered, "maybe this will be better." Ironhide was silent in his way, but supportive, reaching a hand to wrap around Optimus' waist. The medic, though, chuckled without mirth, and leaned his head against Optimus' chest.

"I Primus' sparked hope so, Optimus," Ratchet said.


	8. Two Femmes

AN: It's been a while! But, here we are. And we are soon approaching the end.

Peya Luna: Unfortunately, anatomical dissections and practical experience don't really translate well, ha ha. Well, not in real life, anyways.

Borath: Yeah, in some ways, I feel like the last chapter may actually be the major climax of the story - not that there aren't other conflicts still needing resolution, of course. And yay! I also love pretty much any combo of the three of them.

Optimus'_girl: Sorry, but Chromia's long dead and gone. And since there's not ghosts, she does not appear in this chapter.

Patcher: I'm glad you like it so far!

**Two Femmes  
**

"Oh, hey Optimus!" came Mikaela's muffled voice from the worktable.

"I hadn't expected to find you here, Ms. Banes," Optimus said, and it was true. Ratchet had told him the day before, barring emergencies, he would have free time in the early afternoon. Optimus stepped out of the swath of patchy November sunlight cutting in from the open hangar doors, and watched calmly as the human girl finished a weld.

"Optimus, _Mikaela_…But yeah, I didn't get everything done this morning that I had on my plate, so I just kept working through lunch," she lifted her safety mask with one thickly gloved hand, glancing around conspiratorially before saying, _sotto voce_, "Just don't tell the boss, ok? He always gets on my case when I work through a meal. As if eating a late lunch once in a while'll kill me." Optimus couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"Your secret is safe with me," he said, "but I had an appointment to meet with him, so if you don't want to get caught, you might want to head out."

"Oh yeah, I noticed you been comin' in here a lot," she said, and she leaned herself back, eying him down. Despite several years of interactions, Optimus hadn't quite gotten used to that human expression yet, and it brought back the awkwardness he was beginning to shed. Then she looked away, and started stripping off her protective equipment, heading over to her designated storage trunk. As she was folding her apron up she said, quietly, "Nobody else is around, right?"

Optimus moved closer to her position, away from the entrance. He could hear her just fine, but her hearing was not so acute. "No." Mikaela glanced around, as if to confirm for herself they were alone. Then she dropped the lid of the trunk, and sat down on top of it, delicately.

"I just," she bit her lip, "I guess, I couldn't help but notice, well. I guess I've been worried about you, cause I don't know what's going on, but it's obvious you're different, and coming to the medbay a bunch. That's all."

"Ah." Optimus said. He wasn't surprised. He extended his sensors to check for others, and still no one came up – but to be safe he remotely triggered the door shut, and called on some ceiling lights. Mikaela waited patiently as the hangar bay door lowered, though she wrung her hands nervously in her lap.

"Optimus, whatever you're gonna tell me, don't let it be that the Matrix was temporary," she said, shortly after the door clanged shut and locked into place. Optimus had to think on that for a moment, before he realized what she truly meant.

"No, Mikaela, I'm not dying," he said, and the girl sagged with relief, "and it worries me a little that you thought that might be the case." She laughed, but there was no accompanying smile.

"Well, big guy, when you're in the dark and you're worried, all kinds of crazy ideas come up. I feel like I'm turning into Sam's mom. I didn't want to think that, but, I couldn't get it out of my head, either," she laughed again, "I just, it's been eating me up, that's all. That you might be suffering, and I couldn't do anything to help. I hate that goddamn feeling," she finished bitterly.

"I'm sorry," Optimus said, and was truly chagrined. He hadn't been purposefully avoiding the teenagers, he didn't think, but considering back he realized he had hardly seen them for the past several months. "In truth, it is somewhat…sensitive, and personal. I didn't mean to cause undue worry. I thought I made it clear to NEST that my transformation was not a detriment to my health," he paused, shaking his head and sighing, "but I suppose that information never made it to you." Mikaela didn't respond, other than to gaze at him quietly for a few moments.

"It it's private, you don't have to tell me," she finally said, glancing down to where one hand absently picked at one of the trunk's rivets. "But I _am_ glad to hear you're ok. Mostly," she amended. Moments later, Optimus watched on silently as she continued her clean up, absently returning a few tools and small mechanics to their proper places.

In his processor, he knew this was the time to reveal the truth to the human girl, but – and then a strange clarity, the revelation of a sub-process finally demanding his higher processor's attention, struck him: Mikaela would be the first female to learn of his change, should he reveal it. The idea brought a strange calmness to his spark, where before any hint of exposure had only brought anxiety and turbulence.

"Actually, Ms. – Mikaela," he said, as she prepared to descend the spiral staircase leading to the floor. She raised an eyebrow at him, but her reflective organic eyes conveyed only sincerity. Optimus waved a hand back towards her impromptu bench. "It is not so private, and in truth…perhaps you might have some advice for me."

"Optimus, I'd be honored," she said, but she hesitated, one foot a step below. "But, I mean, are you sure? I don't know if I'd have any advice Ratchet wouldn't, and I don't want to, y'know, tell me if you don't want to."

"I want to," Optimus said with warmth, and it was true. Mikaela stepped back onto the table.

"Okay," she said, with a nervous exhale, as she returned to the trunk.

"I have yet to devise a tactful way of presenting this," Optimus began, servos intertwined, and Mikaela snorted.

"Optimus, _Ratchet_ is my boss. Don't worry about offending me. _And_, keep in mind, I live on a previously secret military base with aliens that disguise themselves as Mack trucks." Optimus looked at her, briefly blinking both optic shutters. She coughed, and her face reddened, though not to the extent Sam's or even Lennox's could. "It was a joke. A bad one. Don't worry? I don't think you could shock me if you tried?"

"When it brought me back to life, the Matrix altered my physical sex – analogically before I was male, and now I am female," Optimus stated as calmly as he could.

"You…you are the first other female that knows of this," he said more quietly, after Mikaela said nothing, did nothing, for several long moments. Longer than humans usually took to respond to statements, as slow as their chemical dependent brains were compared to Cybertronian circuitry.

"Oh." She exhaled, rather loudly. Optimus watched the dust motes float around her breath, reflecting the halogen light from above. "Wow. I just…Wow. That explains a lot." She focused her gaze back to him, though this time solely on his own optics.

"Yes. It is a startling coincidence, some of the similarities between your people in mine," he said.

"Not everything's the same," the girl replied, "I mean, I always kind of figured, like, there wasn't really any difference between Arcee and the rest of you guys. And you don't sound much different. But I guess I didn't see her much."

"Our voices don't reflect our sex the way a human's might, that's true," already, the conversation had given him something to think about. It was strange to consider, a feature so important from a human point of view, but to their kind so inconsequential. On the other hand, there were days he wished humans had a spark resonance, or even a more expressive EM field.

"Oh. But your torso and, the other," Mikaela gesture vaguely towards her own body.

"Yes, that was a result."

"Ah." Optimus allowed her to contemplate this for some moments, absently checking his chronometer. Ratchet still had yet to appear, for well or ill. "Well, Optimus, I don't really know what to say. I don't know what kind of advice you might need from some teenage mechanic."

"Mikaela, don't worry yourself over it. I think it has done me good already, revealing this to you. Right now, only the other Autobots are fully aware of the situation. It has been several months, and I am…beginning to adapt, I feel."

"Yeah? Have you had to make any changes to, like, schedules or battle rosters cause of it? I don't know if female Cybertronians have a different, I dunno, maintenance package than male ones," a hint of red appeared, "yeah, I should not have said package there. Routine." She rubbed her hands on the thighs of her jeans.

"Not in ordinary times, no. And no, so far there the change has not necessitated any changes on that front," he confirmed, considering back over the past few months. He hadn't considered it, but he thought, he hoped objectively, that he had lost only a slight amount of battle effectiveness, and then only because of the fact of a large _change_, more than a change to being _female_. "It has been more during the down time that I have been adjusting." Mikaela raised both her eyebrows in surprise.

"Don't tell me any of the Autobots are jackasses about it. And if Sideswipe is, I need to remind him who runs his monthly maintenance. If there is one thing I have too much experience dealing with, it's pigs." Mikaela's hands tightened on her jeans, her lips pressed into a firm line.

"No. They are, at worst, unnerved. To be honest," Optimus shifted, thinking over the time before, and after, the announcement. "I know that several of them have had very little contact with femmes over their lives."

"Ah. Got it. Well, I hope they haven't been taking any cues from human cultures, 'cause we can suck sometimes."

"Before the war…I cannot say Cybertronian society was fair towards femmes either," Optimus said, heavy with regret. He thought of Elita-1 again, and was sad for a new reason she had not lived. Perhaps she would have enjoyed the freedom Arcee, and now he, enjoyed.

"Fuck."

"Hmmm." Optimus hummed his engine noncommittally.

"Or, well, I guess it could be good, too," Mikaela said, reconsidering. Her hair fell across her face as she tilted her head, considering. "I mean, do the guys remember that? What am I saying, of course they do. Do they care about it? I don't know what Cybertron was like then, but, well, this is Earth." She reached up to tuck the hair back behind her ear, then flicked the hand out, a contemplative expression on her face.

"Now it could be however you want it to be."

#########################

Ratchet was even more hesitant than Ironhide, if that was possible.

"I never married, you know," he confessed that evening, the first time they made love. Clouds had moved in, and November spring rain puttered against roof of the medbay. Optimus laughed softly, and took Ratchet's nervous hand in his own.

"I never married a mech, you know," he replied, his lips quirked. Ratchet smirked back, at least until Optimus' lips met his gently. It was a good first kiss.


	9. Three Lovers

AN: The end! Yay! Thanks to those that read and commented along the way. As usual, comments are crucial encouragement for writing. This has been an interesting character examination of Optimus for me.

Peya_Luna: Yeah, Mikaela certainly has made Optimus think about some stuff that wouldn't necessarily have occurred to him. It helps having a bit of an outside perspective. And yah, Ratchet was a virgin (as far as sex with a femme goes - who knows if he's fooled around with other mechs?). But he's never shy. He's...prudent. ;p

Borath: Well, I hope you like the last chapter, as it has a little bit of just about everything you mention. Wishes do come true.

**Three Lovers**

The humans were blessed with a peaceful December, and their allies celebrated their various holidays with the sober joy borne of too close a scrape with destruction. December was also the month the United Nations as a whole passed a resolution of temporary support of the joint Autobot and human operations, allowing all of NEST to breath that much easier. December, Optimus and Ironhide first shared sparks.

The day had been one of pleasant summer weather. Hot, humid, but not raining. The medbay interior would have been a furnace, if it weren't justified for their circuitry to maintain a cooler temperature through air conditioning. A day in Egypt was fine – several months in the tropics, however, would begin to affect their processors.

Of course, as Ironhide stroked his belly and thighs, Optimus was glad for the cool air for other reasons, his fans whirring it over a rapidly heating engine block. Ironhide's hands had become familiar, and comforting, the past few months. In stolen moments he would stroke Optimus' arm, place a hand on his back…or, like now, tease apart his armor, their EMFs overlapping, a charge building from his groin to his spark.

Optimus massaged the black mech's soldiers, working his fingers into the gaps caused by his transformation sequence. Ironhide leaned forward to nuzzle his face into Optimus' chest, slowly trailing kisses across his windshield and down the central seam. Their interfacing equipment was bare to the air, but they did not hurry.

Optimus parted his chest plates, and began to peak open the spark chamber hidden beneath.

"Optimus…" Ironhide said, leaning away. Suddenly, his field was filled with wavering uncertainty. Optimus leaned over to kiss his brow, then his temple, finishing at an auditory receptor:

"We don't have to, old friend. But, I would like to, if you are willing." A pause, and then a long huff from Ironhide's vents.

"Optimus," he muttered, "I hope I never learn how to say no to you."

When Ironhide was buried deep inside him, thrusting up with a steady rhythm, and they finally, finally touched sparks it was – it was a _relief_. Optimus wrapped his arms around his lover, resting his chin above Ironhide's shoulder plating.

{You're exactly like I thought} Ironhide's voice came to him, from that place where before he heard only himself, and Elita. He felt a little embarrassed, but not surprised, as he felt what the other mech felt. Ironhide was confidence and uncertainty, strength and tenderness, stubborn like a tree with deep roots…Ironhide smiled when Optimus returned the sentiment,

{You as well}

After some interminable time, melded in both body and spark, pleasure built like flame under bellows, and their overloads cascaded through them together.

Optimus absently trailed his fingers over Ironhide's plating, curled together.

"Perhaps I should negotiate with the humans to construct personal quarters." Ironhide chuckled, the laugh rumbling against his grill.

"You start thinkin' about the fact we always lyin' on the floor _now_?" Optimus smiled, and pulled him tighter.

#########################

A ping for attention politely appeared on his HUD, sender: Autobot Sideswipe. Optimus excused himself momentarily from the conference call he was engaged in with the Chinese ministers, turning his attention aside to address the bot.

"You have my attention," Optimus said, waiting. A summer breeze wafted in from over the sea, ruffling the sand around their pedes. Sideswipe fidgeted, EMF prickly, anxious, and on edge - characteristic since the announcement about the Matrix's _other_ effects. Trailbreaker, Smokescreen, and Bumblebee seemed to be adjusting, in their own ways. Beachcomber had never had much of a reaction in the first place. But Sideswipe…Optimus sighed, placing one hand on his hip.

"Sideswipe, I think it unfortunate that you no longer feel comfortable addressing any issues you have with me. If the current command structure is completely untenable, I might have to change it so that you report directly to Ironhide – but I would rather not have to change our team dynamics," he swept a hand out in front of him, "our battle effectiveness is, as always, a key priority, and while so far there have not been any problems – "

"There won't be any problems, Prime," the silver mech cut in. "Yeah, this is slaggin' weird, but it ain't like I haven't seen you rip a couple Decepticon's new seams in the last few months. This ain't about that."

"Well?" Optimus said expectantly.

"Me and a couple other mechs been talkin', and, well, we feel like we're being kept in the dark on something big. Something **else** big. And _that's_ what we're worried about." Sideswipe rotated his tires in agitation. "Turning into a- a femme doesn't mean you've gotta _live_ in the medbay. And, you know, the fact that Ironhide and the Hatchet have been hovering over you like Jolt fawns over his plants. So are you going to tell us what's really going on, are what?"

Optimus weighed the options in his mind carefully. Another security risk. More awkwardness. The Truth.

"Sideswipe, tell me, do you ever think about a future - after the war?"

#########################

It was a conflicted Optimus that met with Ratchet early the next morning. Optimus was glad, as they locked the door, that Ratchet seemed willing to give his thoughts some space.

He had, by this point, discovered Ratchet shivered delightfully when Optimus stroked his cheek flanges. Or, really, when Optimus stroked most sensitive spots on the medic's body, a fine-tuned instrument ready to sing under the right fingers.

The medic lay splayed out on the floor, smirking up at him. Unlike Ironhide, who was becoming more and more of an open book, Optimus still found it difficult to gauge exactly how charged up the medic was at any given time – which, as they first became lovers, had lead to some unfortunate embarrassing incidents. Now Ratchet made it clear he considered it another tool hidden in his subspace.

"What are you off dreaming about, Prime?" Ratchet asked, a little too serious for teasing, not breaking their long lasting, lazy rhythm.

"Oh…" Instead of revealing his heavy thoughts, Optimus stroked a cheek flange again. In retaliation, Ratchet shifted his grip on Optimus' hips, changing their angle _just so_. Optimus bit his tongue to hold back a groan, but Ratchet knew the effect it had on him anyway, and celebrated by stretching up enough to nibble on a jawline. Optimus brought his hand up to cup Ratchet's face, encouraging him, but Ratchet stopped, and sighed.

"Optimus, you think I'm going to ignore what your EMP is shouting at me all morning?" Optimus _had_ hoped so. Ratchet took his non-response for what it was, and gently lifted his hips away. Soon the two were laid out next to each other, Optimus' blue arm draped over Ratchet's neon abdomen.

"I thought we decided rubbing a rust spot till you grind a hole in the armor _wasn't_ the appropriate way to deal with problems," Ratchet said softly, shifting just far enough away to look up to Optimus' face.

"I told Sideswipe about our hope for a sparkling yesterday," Optimus said. Ratchet's brows furrowed.

"All right. How did he react?"

"You aren't upset?" Ratchet snorted.

"Prime, when you're carrying, there comes a point it can't be hidden anymore. They were going to find out eventually. And when the little one arrives, let me remind you, the humans will find out as well. It's an inevitability. But back to Sideswipe."

"It was strange. It was almost as if he hadn't even considered the connection between femmes and sparklings."

"Hardly surprising. The only femme he probably ever met was Arcee, and perhaps his mother, if he and Sunstreaker ever had one. Arcee's hardly the bot one would associate with infants."

"I asked him. He said he and Sunstreaker have no memory of one, nor any mech to call a father. He," Optimus stopped, as the silver mech's straightforward comments had touched a worry he already harbored. The worry had bloomed insidiously overnight.

"What did he say?" Ratchet asked, threading their fingers together.

"He reminded me I might die any time." The silver mech's expression had been pained, and his field sour, when he'd said that. But he'd continued, indignantly. "That any or all of us might die. That's what he thinks happened to their creators. And what would a helpless sparkling do then?" Optimus bit back a sob, remembering the bitter pain in Sideswipe's voice. Ratchet rolled onto his side to hold him better, and they embraced each other.

"Well, I can't guarantee no one will die," Ratchet said gruffly, and without _too_ much bitterness. Their enveloping fields pulsed with the thousand ghosts of lost patients. "But we _are_ solid here, and you know that. And even if one of us, or Primus forbid all three of us, kicked the bucket, someone else would take up the responsibility. You really think after a speech like that Sideswipe would sit back on the sidelines?" The medic stroked his back panels in comfort, and Optimus tried to take his words to spark.

"It is still distressing to me, that's all," Optimus said more steadily, bringing his lips to Ratchet's forehead. Ratchet continued to pet him. Optimus knew what Ratchet said was the only reasonable response, but the bitter irony wouldn't completely wash away.

"Is it strange, that I want to have a sparkling in part because I fear I might fall in battle, and yet I fear having a sparkling in part for the same reason?" Optimus asked.

"No," Ratchet said, and Optimus felt it, in the chartreuse mech's field, that this was an answer the medic had no trouble providing. "I think it just shows that you've got a lot of things to worry about. Unsurprising, being the leader of a small band of refugees of an almost dead race caught in civil war," he said with a dry finality. But then his voice warmed against Optimus' audios, "But don't forget, _now you don't have to worry alone_."

After they relaxed a few minutes longer, Optimus began trailing his hands down Ratchet's plating in a somewhat more suggestive manner.

"Is that _everything_ on your mind, Optimus?" Ratchet said, with enough warning in his voice to make his lover chuckle a bit. But Ratchet knew him too well. "None of that. I get the feeling something else is bothering you, from before you spoke with Sideswipe." Optimus built his courage. Ratchet must have known that this might happen, he had agreed to live this life.

"I shared sparks with Ironhide a few days ago," Optimus confessed hesitantly, his joints stiff with uncertainty over Ratchet's reaction.

"Ah," said the medic. Optimus felt his field pull close as he tried to refrain from any inappropriate reaction.

"It wasn't anything we planned, I just – I was impulsive. I have been thinking about it though, these past few days. I didn't know how to tell you – " Optimus cut himself off as Ratchet pulled tight around him.

"Optimus, I'm just glad you felt comfortable enough to do that. What, you thought I might be jealous? I _did_ sign up for this, you know. And I understand if you want to merge with Ironhide and, and not with me." This time, it was Optimus who shook his head and smiled indulgently.

"Ratchet, don't ever put yourself second. I care about you as well," he once again cupped the mech's faceplates, taking the opportunity to run a thumb over those oh so sensitive flanges. "In fact, if we might return to our earlier activities, I want to show you for yourself," he peeked open his chest plates, the armor sliding against Ratchet's suggestively.

The smirk was back. But Optimus knew it hid the fondness in Ratchet's field and optics. A hand reached down to grab his knee and hike up his leg.

"Why, Prime, _what_ exactly are you suggesting?"

#########################

"What's taking so long?" Ironhide grumbled, shifting his weight in irritation.

January.

Ratchet rolled his optics, and ignored the other mech with alacrity that came from long practice.

"The scan is complicated, and requires a significant amount of computation before meaningful results are derived. As I already explained," the medic grumbled at the end sardonically. Optimus dozed on the repair berth, the two mech's voices floating around him in the semi-darkness of the medbay. The last several days he'd been feeling drained, and when Ratchet noticed him nodding off into his oil drum that evening…well.

"Prime, it seems, well, your little fantasy has come to fruition." Ratchet finally announced, a tint of awe to his voice. Optimus heard more than saw Ironhide stiffen up at the news. He himself felt a wash of shock pass over him – so soon? He only realized he was gripping the edge of the concrete berth when Ratchet pried one of his hands loose to hold it.

"I'd be damn surprised too, except it's you, for one, Primus knows what the Matrix is pulling, for two, and it's just our damn luck, for three," Ratchet said, not lightly, but with a wry wit that Optimus knew was intended to help calm them _all_ down. Optimus didn't manage a laugh, but the moment of paralysis that had overtaken him did pass, and when the implications of the news began to settle deeper than the surface, he moved his other hand to rest on his chassis, just below the spark chamber.

A child. Before, he had justified the act with thoughts of the continuity of their people. Still the thought of their species spiraling down to nothing loomed in his mind. Ratchet's announcement, though, filled him with a different kind of hope, a kind that had meaning only for the three of them: creators to be.

"So, uh," Ironhide spoke slowly and uncertainly, "what now? I mean, when Chromia was carrying…" Optimus remembered, then, the losses Ironhide had suffered, and a new fear filled him.

"I know what you're both thinking, and stop it. I checked _all_ our spark frequencies for incompatibilities, remember? I am going to be watching out for _anything_ that might go wrong, and by the end of this we're going to be sick of it," Ratchet pronounced forcefully.

"Ironhide, Ratchet," Optimus finally spoke up, "let's put aside those thoughts for now. I, like I think Ironhide meant in part, want to know: What do I do tomorrow when I online in the morning? What new changes," Optimus sighed, a small one, "should be made? More joyfully, when will we have the pleasure of meeting the little one face to face?"

"As for the last question, it'll be a while. Protoform consolidation this way is slow, even if we can actively supplement your diet with recovered Cybertronian nutrients. With our shortage of energon," Ratchet turned his thoughts inward, "well, depends on how much we give you. If we're out of fights and don't need any for emergency situations, my guess is around 2 Earth years. Up to 4 on the slow end."

"4 years?" Ironhide returned with frustration. Optimus glared at him mildly. He rest a hand on Optimus' shoulder and the touch of his EMF that Optimus felt had the decency to be reproached.

"Hopefully not," Ratchet corrected. "As for tomorrow? Nothing. You're tired because your systems haven't quite caught on they need to up their output a bit to support the sparklet. That should hopefully pass in a few weeks. Excusing yourself when you need a stasis nap to reset your systems should help it along."

"Oh," said Optimus.

"Speaking of, since you're practically falling asleep on the berth, it might be time to turn in to recharge for the night." Ironhide grunted in agreement.

"Wanna park on that runway near the beach? Weather tonight ain't too bad." Optimus, still in a daze, nodded, and the three meandered lazily to the out of commission runway.

Suddenly and unbidden, his memories cycled back to an evening of leisure he'd spent with Elita-One, vorns and vorns ago. They had been newlyweds, but somehow Optimus had secured time for just the two of them, away Ultra Magnus and Megatron. They'd snuck down to the capital's art district, taking in the evening crowds packing the alleys and galleries. The decorative streetlamps made her rose paint glow nearly peach. She had been so beautiful.

"Woah!" She said, laughing, as a forest green mechling ran headlong into her. The child cried, but Elita only smiled and helped him upright. "Next time be more careful, little one. Where are your fathers? You should go find them again," she said indulgently. She sighed as he slipped off into the crowd's legs, and then she laughed again.

"What are you laughing at?" Optimus asked, grasping her hand in his again. She smiled slyly up at him, her optics glowing brightly.

"Oh…Just wait a few cycles, and maybe you and Magnus will be chasing down a little one, that's all." Optimus stopped dead in his tracks, shock on his faceplates. Elita laughed again, bright and clear over the sound of the crowd around them.

"Not yet, silly mech. But," she demurred, a touch of nerve entering her voice, "I hope, you do look forward to sparklings? Someday?" Optimus pulled himself together, gazing warmly at her.

"I look forward to it very much."

Optimus abruptly stopped on the tarmac, startling the two mechs walking with him. Raising his gaze to the clear sky above, he sent a silent prayer to the Matrix. He hoped Elita would be happy for him. He thought she would be.

"Optimus?" Ironhide said.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he said. "Come, let us recharge." He folded into his alt-mode and rolled to a scenic spot, and the two mechs followed suit. As his systems settled down, his sleepy processor imagined a little rose femme running headlong into his legs, and his spark warmed.

**Fin**


End file.
